Sometimes I feed him daily
                                                                     though I try to not at all,
                                                                  and despite the bite, his empty eyes,
                                                                       I heed his monkey call.
 
                                                   I (Clutch the stick) crawl on my fists
                                                     in search of  flesh to beat—
                                                               (Blind it)
                                                                                 (Claw it)
                                                           (Maul it
                                                      raw) the pulp   I eat
                                                         I eat
                                                                               I eat.
 
                                                 There’s a monkey lives inside
                                                                                  my brain, twisting
                                                                grabbing me
                                                                             he bites— what bliss
                                                            to lick his tongue (Your lips
                                                       desire) what a fright.
 
                                                He’s crawling through my mouth (Again)
                                  he’s fingering my eyes,
                                          I’ve let him come alive (AGAIN
                              his howl no surprise
                                                               ‘fore twilight throes, the victim moans
                                                              unto My jungle groans
                                                      her wet oasis, her featherdove hair,
                                                          Her skin  the moon
                                                         so fair So rare
                                                                                so soft her lips   We’re crawling through
                                                                                   the bliss    Her mourning seeks
 
                                                                                          red tongues  Her eyes so wet
                                                                                           to lies—  We come

                                                                                                      for sin    Death welcoming
 
                                                                                                          The pleasure
                                                                                                             Your demise

20

coruscations
Christopher Cassetty

dreamt i one july of—coruscations
who, when asked, would dance upon the walls and
glimmer in the blood that dripped from the ceilings.

dreamt i one december of–july,
who, without having been asked, would play over
and over until my ears rang and bled into my pillow.

dreamt i one april of–showers,
who, by chance, would wash my face and
wake me from the floor after i had taken my pills.

dreamt i one late june of  the rancid entrails
of  the driver of  a car—spilt—across stained asphalt
and wondered, “what is this to do with me?”

dreamt i last night of  my dreams,
a coruscation, a nightmare, an overdose and an accident,
and wondered if  there was anything at all

to be learnt from a dream.